Strangers
by Garrae
Summary: "Beckett took a look at him. He was faintly familiar. Neurons started to twang in the back of her head. Her voice was calm and very cool. Her brain had just exploded. This was Richard Castle. Richard-freaking-Castle, right there next to her. He was top of her Freebie Five list. And she liked the books. Loved the books. And she was single." AU meeting, pre-series. 3 shot. Pornado.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

She hated this party. All dressed up with a roomful of strangers, all in couples, and here _she_ was all on her own because her lame-ass boyfriend – _ex_ -boyfriend, as of an hour ago – had chosen tonight to _inform_ – not ask, or discuss, or suggest, but _inform_ – her that they were moving to Boston because he'd had a promotion.

"Fuck that," she'd said, followed by, "and fuck you too. No. I'm not going to Boston and I'm not sacrificing my career for yours. We're done."

An hour later, she was still blazing with rage, though hurt was beginning to taint its edges. She stalked to the bar – free, which was the only small consolation.

"Vodka, please. Double. On the rocks."

Single and drinking alone. Not a good start. After the first gulp, she realised it, and sipped, perched on a bar stool in a tight black dress which showed off her legs. Sonofabitch FedEx had loved her legs, and when he'd said that he'd got a surprise for her tonight she'd gotten herself all dressed up. She hadn't expected what he actually said. And then the unlamented – she censored the next word – had said _well it won't matter when we're married_. Who had he thought he was? _Fuck that_ , she thought again. _Fuck him sideways with a flagpole_. Splinters would be only too appropriate.

She forced herself only to sip. The toxic vapour cloud of her fury surrounded her, drowning out quite a number of interested glances. The next day, she supposed, she'd be back at work – oh. Shit. She was taking – had been forced to take, more accurately – three days' leave. Aaargh. Well, she'd spend the first of them fumigating every last trace of that sexist, chauvinist, sonofabitch Sorenson from her apartment. At least she'd taken her key from him as she'd ditched him. Not fumigating. Sterilising. And if he'd left anything, it was going in the trash. In pieces.

"Another," she said to the barman, and as an afterthought, though her tone had made him jump to her order, "please."

She became aware of someone edging up beside her. Her shoulder blocked them. She was going to drink her vodka and then go home. The punch ball in her apartment was calling to her, and she was going to save one photo and pin it on the ball to give her a target.

"Scotch," he said to the barman. "Single malt." He stepped sideways, and knocked her arm. "Sorry," he said automatically, but nothing more. His whisky arrived, and he threw it back in one go. "Another, please." He hadn't given Beckett more than a single fleeting glance.

The second glass sat in front of him, and whoever it was leaned on the bar and sighed. He seemed to be almost as depressed as Beckett was furious. Like her, he sipped at the liquor; like her, he was controlling an obvious desire to down it in one and keep going. She concentrated on her own drink. It was sliding down very easily.

"Want another?"

Oh. It was depressed-party-man. Even his voice was flat and unhappy. Her instant instinct to turn him into ground beef receded slightly.

"I need another, and yours is done, so…" he offered.

Beckett took a look at him. He was faintly familiar. Neurons started to twang in the back of her brain. "Sure, thanks. Vodka on the rocks." Her voice was calm and very cool. Her brain had just exploded. This was _Richard Castle_. _Richard-freaking-Castle_ , right there next to her. He was top of her Freebie Five list. _And_ she liked the books. Loved the books.

And she was single.

He wasn't. He was, quite famously, married to his publisher/editor. Everyone knew that. Second marriage. But if he was married, where was his wife, and why wasn't he working the room and putting on a show and generally being the notorious Richard Castle: megastar playboy author? She made a snap decision _not_ to be Interrogation Beckett, and not to let on that she knew exactly who he was. It wasn't like she was going to sleep with him. Her bright line was taken men. No way, never.

Now there was a thought. Had that-sonofabitch-Fed _Ex_ been playing away? She wouldn't have thought so, but…he hadn't been half as upset as he should've been when she ditched him. Unconsciously, she snarled, and her fingers made a gesture of spine-snapping intensity.

"If you don't want one, that's okay," he said hurriedly. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'll just…" –

"It's not you," she apologised. "Just…not a good day."

"Boyfriend trouble?"

"You what now?"

"Well, you're on your own, and this party is all couples… and you sound _really_ pissed and it can't only be me because we haven't even met yet…and normally when someone makes that sort of a gesture they wanna shoot someone. Or strangle them. Or tear out their spine, slowly and painfully. Or beat the hell out of their face."

"Have you quite finished?" But the first smile of the previous almost two hours was beginning to flirt at her lips.

"Well, er, um…no, because I've seen at least fifty more indications of dislike" –

"You've been here half an hour and you've been staring into your drink most of that. I don't believe you."

"Oh, not on you. On my ex."

"Ex?"

"As of this morning, ex. She's a great woman. I'm not – I obviously _wasn't_ –a great husband. So now I'm not. A husband, that is. And believe me, I've seen every gesture of annoyance, frustration, irritation, dislike, and general _pissed_ ness in the book."

Beckett had stopped paying attention at _I'm not a husband_. He was single. She was single. He was sexy. Hotter than hell and _right here_. Her mood was broken when he put his glass down with a thud. "So, d'you want a drink?"

"Yeah. Thank you." She paused, but not for long. "I ditched my boyfriend on the way in here." Richard Castle ( _squee!_ ) looked sympathetically at her. "He'd decided that we'd move. Shame he forgot to discuss it with me first."

"I guess that didn't go down well?"

"Nope." She bit off the _p_. "Damn straight. So I ditched the bastard right then."

"Good."

His eyes roamed over her, and for the first time he _looked_ , rather than glanced. When his gaze returned to her face, having lingered on every inch on the way down and back up, his expression had changed. It wasn't sympathetic. It was heated.

 _Why not? He's single. I'm single. No commitment._ She didn't _do_ one night stands. _So what? He's sexy._ She'd never see him again, except maybe if she got his books signed. _Sufficient unto the day_ , she thought.

She might not do one-night stands, but she was absolutely prepared to do Richard Castle.

She matched his hot blue gaze with sparking hazel, and bit her lower lip, soothed it with a pink flick of tongue-tip. He moved closer, thigh touching her knee. She wound her calf around his leg, pulling him a fraction nearer: just enough to make it clear he was very welcome. He smiled wolfishly, and laid a hand over hers.

It _burned_. She turned her hand palm up under his – big, broad hands; callouses on the fingers – as their hands closed around each other, lying on the bar.

"I'm Rick."

"I'm Kate."

"Do you want that drink?"

"Hell, no. Let's get out of here."

She stood up, eyes sparking.

"You're tall," he said, surprised.

"Yeah. Are we leaving, or what?"

"Yes."

Less than two minutes later Beckett found herself out on the street, whistling down a taxi, and Richard Castle – _Rick_ – still hanging on to her hand.

"Impressive," he said. She simply smirked. "Varick Club," he said to the driver, opened the taxi door for her and followed her in. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"Yep." She confirmed it by running her hand up his arm and around his jaw, then pulling his head down to kiss him aggressively. His response was instant: powerful and passionate.

He lifted off for a moment. "I do like a woman who knows what she wants," he murmured. "It makes it so much easier to give it to her."

"I like a man who knows what he's doing," she husked, hauled his head back down and nipped his lip. "Explanations are so tedious."

"I don't need explanations." His hand landed on her knee, fingers upwards, and she squirmed and breathed faster. His fingers slid higher. "Or directions." Hers took a detour from his neck downwards, and found hard muscle under the fine dress pants. His breathing speeded up to match hers.

"Just as well youse are gettin' a room," the driver said sardonically. "Cause I ain't havin' none of that in my cab. We're here."

Rick paid. Beckett growled. It had no effect. Checking in took mere moments: the first sight of Rick's card had an _amazing_ effect on the reception desk. There were no awkward questions, no sly looks (a look of admiration, sure), and no indiscreet gazes towards ring fingers. She could get used to that – _no_. No getting used to anything. One night stand. That was all. Rebound sex – perfect way to get rid of that asshole ex. Rick had kissed well…um…scorchingly well. She'd have a great night, and that would be that. Names and numbers not relevant.

The elevator was unoccupied, fortunately, since as soon as the doors shut Rick took instant possession of her mouth, wrapped one hand round her skull and used the other to clamp around her ass and press her as close as clothes allowed. _Mmmmmm_. _Nice_ package there. She rolled her hips and heard the grating, predatory growl with total satisfaction. She was already damp. He was quite definitely hard. Her hands wriggled under his shirt and found more hard muscle all the way up his back.

They walked out of the elevator in good order, if you ignored the untucked shirt, swollen lips and crackling sexual attraction. Fortunately the room wasn't far from the elevator. Rick didn't let go of her for a moment: a firm arm around her waist, fingers not quite indiscreetly low, but giving the clear impression that they could be at an instant's notice. It was hotly arousing.

The door opened, they fell into the room, the door closed – with Beckett's back against it and Rick's mouth taking hers without a pause. She had no objection at all, and gave it back with interest: hands locked around his neck and tongues battling. She nipped on his lip and it fired him up: he brought one of her legs up round his waist and stroked from knee upwards, stopping at the hem of her dress, which was equally arousing and annoying. He should go further, _right now_. She wrapped her leg firmly around his ass and pulled him forwards into her, grinding against the bulge in his pants. He pushed in, and their kiss became hotter, harder, and demanding. Words were not required.

She wrenched his buttons apart, he ripped the zipper of her dress open from neck to ass: the shirt and dress were simultaneously shoved from their shoulders.

He stopped, and stepped a little back. Beckett's busy hands flicked his pants open and pushed them away too, so that he had to step out of them as she had to step out of her dress.

"Wow," he said, admiring her from top to toes, blue eyes blowtorch hot. She stood proud under his gaze: perfectly at home in her underwear and skin; lips wet, bee-stung and reddened; nipples erect and pushing the sheer fabric of her black lace bra, only just concealing; a little sheen of sweat in her cleavage; breasts pertly forward and inviting. His gaze dropped, and snagged on the tiny pair of briefs, also sheer with black lace, covering the bare essentials.

Beckett returned the favour, sending a scorching, assessing gaze over Rick just as slowly. Firm muscle, nice abs, strong arms…and a very pretty package indeed, enclosed in a pair of – ooohhh, silk – boxers. A large package. Definitely extra postage required. On the other hand, she was so wet and so ready and really, his size wasn't going to be a problem.

They exchanged identically predatory smiles.

"You're gorgeous," he grated.

"You're pretty good too," she husked. "Let's be good together."

"I think I'd rather be bad. I'm very good at being bad."

"So am I."

She hauled him back close and smiled sharply. "Showtime." Her lips moved sensually over his: slow and smooth and oh-so-sexy, drawing his lower lip into her mouth and releasing, a rhythmic movement that made her think of the harder, deeper thrust and release to come. His hips mimicked her mouth, and she rolled against him, hands biting into his shoulders and enjoying the flex and stretch of the muscle under her grip.

"Sure," he grinned, and his hands pulled her leg up once more, his mouth took hers again, and his evil, _evil_ fingers began to glide and swoop and venture ever further over her inner thigh; then leave and ply over her taut, slim ass; then return. She gasped as the tips of his fingers brushed the lace of her panties, and again as his mouth left hers to wander across her jaw and round to her ear, where it expertly found a nerve which went directly to her core and sent hot sparks down it. She mewed, and her fingers bit on his flesh, her head thrown back. He gleefully accepted the open invitation and began to kiss down her throat to her clavicles. She liked that. She _really_ liked that. The man could surely use his mouth.

She flooded as she thought of what _else_ he might be able to do with his mouth.

"You're hot," he said, almost reverently. "Absolutely fucking hot." One broad finger delicately traced along the lacy line of her bra, dipping beneath it. "Smooth as silk," and he wasn't talking about the fabric.

"You're pretty hot too, Rick," Beckett purred. He sure was. They were going to _blaze_.

His lower hand slipped over her thigh and shifted her panties to rub across her, and he made a satisfied noise as he felt their dampness. "What does it for you?"

Truthfully, that would be _him_. He was _definitely_ doing it for her.

"You're doing just fine so far." She slid her hand down to brush against his as she palmed him. "What does it for you?"

"You."

She blinked. That had been unwontedly definite. They'd only met an hour or two ago. "Do I?" she deflected. "Okay then." She kissed him, which shut him up, which was a good thing. This was a one-time thing, because famous, notorious, infamous Richard Castle, multimillionaire and megastar, was never going to keep company with a lowly Detective Second Grade (still so new it hadn't lost its shine) – and anyway she didn't want to keep company with him.

Who was she kidding? She so did – but it was never going to happen, so she didn't. This was a _one-time thing_ , and she'd better remember it. Right. Now that that was settled, she was going to enjoy it. Him. Ohhhhhh yes. _Ohhhhh_ yes.

His hand wrapped round her waist, leaving her breasts – but was replaced by his mouth, which was definitely the better part of the deal. She couldn't do anything but cling to his shoulders as he feasted: licking, sucking, nipping and nibbling until she couldn't think, only react: flexing and arching and writhing under his erotic actions.

"You like that," he breathed against her skin, unclasped her bra, and slipped the straps from her slim shoulders. "You'll like this too."

She did. Oh God _oh God do that some more_. Nobody had heated her up like that ever. _Oh god oh god oh god Rick!_ She sagged against the door. Her knees had mysteriously disappeared. Certainly they weren't present to hold her up. Tiny aftershocks were still fizzing through her.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Three chapters on the usual Tue-Thu-Sun schedule. Written to finish coincident with the Pornado weekend, 16-18 Nov._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He pulled her up and walked (well, half-carried, she thought) her to the bed. She gratefully fell on it, which meant she needn't worry about the absence of knees or balance or indeed brain. He was standing, staring down at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"Like what you see?"

He shook his head, as if clearing it. "So much. Lemme show you."

He stripped his socks, his shoes long gone, and smiled slowly and dangerously. "All spread out in a tiny pair of panties and nothing else." His voice was furry, velvety: stroking every synapse into scorching life. "Blazing hot and soaking wet, and all mine."

She smiled ferally up at him in return. "Hard and hot and all _mine_ ," she pointed out, sat up and reached for him. He came to her tug. She tugged again, much harder, and he fell on to the bed into the space she'd just vacated, landing flat on his back.

"You play rough," he said.

"Just getting you to the right place."

"Oh, I'm already in the right place," he drawled, and pulled her over him. "And now you are too." He rolled them over, and pressed into the space between her thighs.

"In a hurry?"

"Not at all."

His body felt like it was in a considerable hurry, sliding against her and seeking entrance. Still, lust-fuzzed she might be, but not lost to all sense.

"Protection?"

"Ah. Oh. Yeah. Um…gimme a moment."

Of course he had condoms in his wallet. He was notorious. And she didn't care. Not one single solitary jot did she care. It was a night out of time with her top freebie, and she didn't even need the freebie piece of that because she was absolutely definitely incontrovertibly _single_. Rebound sex was just _fine_ by her.

He prowled back, no longer that tad flustered, uncertain: unashamedly naked and impressively erect. In his hand were several little foil packets. She raised an eyebrow.

"Be prepared," he smirked.

"I'm not sure this qualifies for Boy Scout badges."

"Doing one's best is a Scout motto."

"You're not doing anything right now," Beckett pointed out.

Rick waggled his eyebrows rakishly. "Is that a hint, Kate? Because I pride myself on my ability to take hints."

"Why don't you stop talking and take me, instead?"

"Since you ask so nicely…"

He put the condoms on the nightstand, and looked into its drawer. "Hmm."

"What?" Beckett rose up and crawled across the bed to investigate. "Toys," she said calmly. "Think you'll need them?"

"Nope. Unless you want to play with them, but that's a little presumptuous for a first date."

"Trust me, if I need to arrest you I'll be using my own handcuffs."

Rick blinked. Beckett realised what she'd said, and before he could comment knelt up, hauled his head down, and invaded his mouth without a pause. Thinking – or identifying her profession – wasn't what he was there for.

Her brief victory was shortly reversed, as Rick brought size, strength and an extremely talented mouth to bear. It was a battle she was happy to lose, ending up where she'd begun, on her back, under his broad body, legs open to welcome him close.

"Now," he purred, "where were we? Oh, yes. I think I was here." He slid downwards and began to lavish attention on her breasts again: licking and sucking, more carefully erotic nips, just hard enough.

Beckett ran her hands down his back, but failed to reach any area from which she could produce similarly arousing effects to those which Rick was achieving. That wasn't fair. She attempted a roll, which didn't work.

"Don't you like it?" he said. He sounded a touch disconcerted.

"Can't you tell?" she teased. "Sure I do, but when do I get a go?"

"I wanna make you happy. Just let me, okay?"

Well, if he was happy to do all the giving and no taking, she was certainly on board with that. Unusual – her bastard ex (oh-so-definitely _ex_ ) had been a lot more interested in equality and if she'd not insisted she was pretty sure he'd have been happy for her to do a lot more for him – but nice. Ohhhhhhh. Much better than _nice_. He'd suckled, just at the right intensity, and then there'd been the scrape of teeth, just the right side of the line, and _ohhhh_ that was _ohhhhh_.

"You like that," he noted. "Let's do it some more."

"Hell, yeah - _ohhhhhh yes please more_."

He did it some more.

" _Rick!_ " she cried, and came just from his mouth on her breasts and she'd never, ever, _ever_ been that sensitised before but _oh God_ he knew what to do.

He rested his chin on her sternum and grinned smugly. "You _really_ liked that." She just about managed an assenting hum. "I'm good with my mouth," he added arrogantly. Another hum emerged. It was all her frazzled neurons could produce. He slithered up the bed and wrapped her in. "What else would you like, I wonder?" he murmured darkly into her ear.

That would be _anything_ , Rick, though kinky would need to wait till she knew a lot more about him – _what_? No no no. One. Night. Stand.

He was definitely _standing_ , so to speak. If she could speak, which she couldn't. That required brain function, of which she currently had none. She gathered up a stray brain cell or three, and achieved speech.

"You're definitely good with your mouth," she husked. "Wanna see how good I am?" She didn't wait for permission. The sudden jerk of his body against her had told her all she needed to know. She wiggled out of his arms and straight downward. She liked using her mouth, too; leaving her lover devoid of thought, movement, and while he was – um – _recovering_ , he would be in a position to reciprocate. Though she was two full-price orgasms to the good already, so it was her turn.

Oh yes. Mmmmm. Oooohhhh. The man had a package. Oooohhhhh yes. Please. All present and correct. Standing to attention. Mmmmmm. And right then, all hers, too. He lay there, completely relaxed except for the significant area, waiting for her. She spent a little time admiring. Nice abs, strong thighs, lovely broad chest (very suitable for pillowing her head on), really nice ass, what she could see of it. Mmmmmmm.

She wriggled a little further down, lifted her head to smile up at him, and then began with her fingers: a gentle cupping, a tiny trace of nails – yep, that worked – deft touches and small teases; and then she added a slow, tantalising taste, following the throbbing vein from root to tip, a swirl over the bead of fluid at the head that left a hint of saltiness on her tongue, and then she took him in and he groaned and jerked under her ministrations. He was almost too big for her. Almost.

He came on her name, hands clamped to her head and a hot gush from thrust hips, and then pulled her up to his mouth and kissed her hard, heedless of the remnants of his own taste on her lips.

"Fuck, you're amazing," he breathed. "Stay here. I can't feel my legs yet."

"Can't go anywhere," she pointed out. Not without making a lot of effort, anyway, since his grip was caging her closely. Definitely strong arms, and his chest was astoundingly comfortable as a pillow. She eased down and snuggled in. Why miss out on a good opportunity to snuggle? There wasn't going to be much of it in her immediate future. Rick gave good snuggle, and she was going to enjoy every last instant of it..

Good snuggle didn't last long enough. "Where're you going?" she muzzed at him, as the encompassing warmth detached.

"You'll see." Which had to be the most irritating phrase _ever_ , especially when she'd been beautifully cosy and comfortable and warm and safe and snuggled. "Just lie back and enjoy it." There was a note in his voice… _ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod_. That _mouth_. And lips, and tongue, and teeth… _ohhhhhhhh_ _God_. He teased the nerves and licked up the folds as if it were his favourite flavour – the way he was behaving maybe it was – tried a delicate nibble and she screamed with the pleasure – and settled to a pattern which wound her so high she could barely think.

And then his tongue slipped inside her as well and she couldn't stop the noises or the pleading or the tidal wave that drowned her.

He came back up, lips shiny, a smug smirk playing at them, and gathered her in again. It was turning out to be one hell of a night. She'd come three times already, and they hadn't got to the pile of condoms yet. What was he trying to prove? She'd have been happy to come _once_. Multiple orgasms were a deeply unexpected bonus.

Rick, in fact, was clearly a man who not only enjoyed sex, but enjoyed his partner's satisfaction just as much or more than his own. If she'd been asked to think about it, she'd have thought that he'd be the typical _I-am_ , more concerned with himself than her. Wasn't that how celebrities were supposed to be? Richard Castle – at least in bed – wasn't your typical celebrity. She steered away from that thought. She couldn't get involved: it was bound to be a disaster.

"Cuddle up," he enticed in that furry, dark baritone that could be bottled for an aphrodisiac all on its own. "I wanna cuddle."

"Thought you'd want something else," she said in a sultry voice, reaching down to find proof that he would.

"Don't you want to cuddle?" He almost sounded hurt.

"Okay," she agreed, and wriggled into his waiting arms.

"There. You feel good right there."

He really did sound as if he wanted to cuddle. Beckett, sex-stunned or not, was still an investigator, and she put his comments about the signs of dislike together with his desire to cuddle her and swiftly concluded that Rick was a snuggler who hadn't had a lot of opportunity to snuggle recently. She made herself comfortable and found that he fitted her very neatly. She could make him happy – he'd surely made her very happy – simply by staying put and being cuddled, which also made her happy. Win-win.

She was woken by an amorous nibble at her ear and a whiffle of breath through her hair.

"You fell asleep."

She blushed. "You tired me out," she flipped back.

He acquired a lazy, predatory expression, rolled her on to her back, leaned down, and kissed her, taking his time. "You're awake now, though. Want to play some more?"

Sure she did. But… "What's this place?"

"The Varick Club? It's a gentleman's club, so you've always got somewhere if you need it." He didn't seem embarrassed.

"A sex club?"

"I prefer it to checking into a hotel. More discreet. Hotels gossip."

"You do this often?"

"I was married till this morning. No. Not while I was married. Before that… that's a different story. I don't cheat, though."

"I wouldn't have come with you if you were married."

"I wouldn't have asked."

"So this is a sex club."

"No, it's a club with rooms where you can stay."

"Supplied with sex toys. Most of which don't look suitable for solo play for men."

His eyes crinkled. "Well, well, Kate. You seem pretty knowledgeable."

"I've picked things up, here and there." In Vice, to be precise. Her theoretical knowledge was extensive. Her practical knowledge, less so, though she was hardly naïve. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Anyway. It's where we are. If you want to call it a sex club, that's okay with me." He waggled his own eyebrows at her. "As is sex, you know."

"I think I'd noticed," she said dryly. "It's difficult to miss."

"I noticed that sex was okay with you too. That was difficult to miss," he said equally dryly, and then grinned wolfishly. "So shall we do it some more?"

"Subtle, Rick."

"Why bother with subtlety? We're here, we're naked, you're hot and I'm dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Dangerously sexy."

Beckett snickered. "Dangerous is a six-four meathead with a loaded gun. Sexy" – she looked him up and down, slowly – "I'll give you sexy, if not modest."

"Modesty is over-rated." He looked her up and down, slowly. "I _definitely_ prefer immodest."

She sat up. "You talk too much." She caught his hands in hers, and pushed him down to pin his hands by his ears. Then she straddled him, leaned down, and took his mouth with firm possession, exploring to her heart's content and finding that he was perfectly pleased to be explored. She, however, wanted more.

She opened a packet by touch alone, then lifted off his mouth, slid down his thighs, and slowly rolled it on, leaving him thick and hard: fully erect and oh-so-very ready. His flaming blue eyes were watching her face, intent. She guided him to her entrance, and sank down to take him in.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, that felt so good. He was _perfect_. His hands came up to her shoulders, and he pulled her down to kiss her – and then he rolled them so he was above her and gazing down. She would have complained, but he began to move, slowly, deliberately: each hard thrust taking her higher; each thrust of tongue matching his rhythm, and he brought a hand down between them to touch the nerves so that she twisted and arched and rose to him and he moved faster, harder, deeper and she clenched around him and dug nails into his shoulders and they cried out into each other's mouths and came apart together.

He didn't let go, and already she didn't expect him to do so. He brought her over his heart, and cradled her there, petting and playing with her hair. His fingers seemed unable to be still. She simply lay there, and enjoyed it, though normally people fidgeting around her produced an intense desire to draw her gun and shoot off each fidgety finger, one digit at a time. Truthfully, she didn't want to move. Moving might mean that the night was done, and then so would this whole connection be done, because after all, they moved in two entirely different worlds. If she saw him again, it would be at a signing, and he'd never remember her, or spot her in the line and crowd; so she should make the most of the time now.

"Wha' time's it?" he slurred, sleep sliding through his voice.

"Don't know." She hadn't worn her watch tonight: its masculine lines not suiting the occasion or her dress.

"Urgh." He heaved up an arm, and peered. "Two."

"I should go home," she said unwillingly.

"No."

Oh. Well. That had been definite. And she wasn't on shift tomorrow, or the next day, or even the day after that, so it really didn't matter if she stayed out all night. It wasn't as if there was anyone waiting for her. Still, that had been a little too much like an order for her taste.

"No?" she queried, an edge to her tone that came from years of ordering around suspects and recalcitrant witnesses.

"Uh… I don't want you to go yet." He turned towards her, big blue eyes soft and pleading. "Please will you stay a bit longer, Kate?"

"Okay." She was almost appalled by how quickly she accepted. Maybe he was dangerous – to her common sense. Then again, she knew who he was, so if anything went wrong, she'd be able to deal with it. Unless the crime writer turned out to be a killer for real… _Don't be so silly_ , she told herself. Fifty people must have seen him leave, so there were witnesses. She cuddled back into him and let him continue to pet and play with her hair. It was very soothing, and his heartbeat was hypnotic, and she was warm and cosy and well-loved.

She woke with a start, expecting her alarm and work, and only slowly realised that she had neither. In fact, she was still curled against a large male body, which was still slumbering, but nevertheless had a possessively heavy arm around her middle and was spooned into her back. She stayed put for a few moments, and only then realised that she really, _really_ needed to get up. Detaching herself wasn't easy, but she managed, and found the small en-suite bathroom with considerable relief.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. You are much appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When she returned, Rick was propped up against the pillows, frowning. "I thought…" he began, "but you haven't."

"Gone? No. Difficult to leave without clothes on."

"I guess." He coloured. "I…didn't think of that." Which Beckett accurately translated, surprised, to _I panicked when you weren't there_. "Give me a minute." He stood up, which gave her a chance to take a detailed survey. Still very nice indeed. Big, broad, handsome and very, very sexy. The morning scruff was pretty good, too, and when he turned his ass was as firm as she could have wanted. She didn't scruple to conceal her attention as he shut the bathroom door, nor when he returned.

"I really have to go home," she said.

"It would be nicer to stay here," Rick enticed, and slid a hand on to her leg. "Play hooky."

"I can't." She could. But…

"I guess you have to work." He didn't wait for a response. "I know. Are you free tonight?"

Huh? Richard megastar author celebrity Castle wanted to see her tonight? Again? More?

"Because we could come back. I mean, I get that you don't want to take strangers home and all that, but we were great together and we should do it again. So if you wanna" – he suddenly looked strangely doubtful – "then…why not?"

Why not indeed? Beckett's common sense, self-preservation, and organised, tidy life dissolved in one hot flash of sheer lust. They _had_ been great together. Rick had been a lot better in bed than Will, for sure. Some hot, meaningless, uncommitted sex wouldn't do her any harm at all, and then they'd go their separate ways quite happily.

"Okay."

His face lit up, and then shifted to open desire. "Good," he murmured, "and just to make sure you don't forget about it…" and he kissed her hard, running his hand over her leg to her hip, tumbling her back into the sheets and pillows, teasing and stroking and fingers sliding over and round and in and out and then there was that scruff which _ohhh fuck_ scraped in all the right places and _ohhhh don't stop_ somehow he'd covered himself and then he pushed home and touched her intimately and kept her mouth and then she shattered around his explosion.

"So, I'll meet you back here at, um" –

"Nine," she decided for him. It would give her time to eat.

"Seven. They do food here. It's pretty good."

She stared at him. Had he read her mind?

"I think I'll like feeding you."

"I learned to use cutlery when I was a toddler," Beckett snipped, "so I don't need fed."

"But it can be so much fun. I can do amazing things with chocolate-dipped strawberries." Beckett merely quirked an eyebrow at him, with a sardonic expression which said volumes. "Okay, okay. Whatever. But seven."

She shrugged. "If it's that important, seven." She wasn't going to show just how freaked out and delighted she was that he wanted to see her again. The latent fangirl in her was squealing non-stop, but she rammed her back into her cage in case he should see it in her eyes. She'd managed to pretend she hadn't recognised him so far, and she was sticking with that. He didn't know her full name, and she was sticking with that too.

She walked over to find her scattered clothes, and began to dress, knowing his eyes were tracing every move she made. It was a bit late to be embarrassed, so she wasn't. She scrubbed at the crumpled dress, and growled at it. Neither improved the creases. Rick had padded over and was rapidly dressing. It wasn't fair that she was obviously leaving in yesterday night's clothes and he could pretend he wasn't.

"They'll get you a cab," he said. "No need to get the subway."

That was some relief, she supposed.

That was exactly what happened, after a bruisingly passionate final kiss which left both of them brain fried and panting.

Beckett reached home, stripped off before she'd even reached the bathroom and stood under a hot shower till she felt clean and sane again. What had she been thinking?

She hadn't been thinking. But now she was thinking, and she was thinking that she got to do it – Rick – all over again, later on. Which would nicely finish off the day, after she removed every last trace of that sonofabitch Fed-ex from her apartment. She pulled on jeans and an old t-shirt, and started.

Some hours later, she finished. She'd checked every last corner of every last drawer and closet. She'd even ditched the mug he'd usually used, and the dumb one he'd given her that she'd never liked and only kept so as not to hurt him. Well, that sure wasn't going to be a problem any more. She put it in a plastic bag, and vengefully walloped it with a small hammer until it smashed with a satisfying crack. Then she battered it into dust and china chips, and felt better with every strike. She plumped down on her couch, thoroughly satisfied, and caught a glimpse of her watch.

 _Oh, shit!_ It was already after six, and she needed to shower, and wash her hair, and change, and _oh shit_ she'd better skedaddle.

She raced through a shower and hair wash, scrunch-dried her hair because she didn't have time to blow-dry it and hoped it wasn't too tousled, whipped on dark dress pants and a deep crimson angora sweater, and didn't think too much about the fact that she'd donned her sexiest silk underwear. She grabbed a cab, gave the driver the address, and was at the Varick Club just after seven.

She had to admit that walking in was a tad unnerving: it was so clearly a _men's_ club. However, she was Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD and if massive meatheads with guns pointed at her didn't faze her then certainly this club wouldn't. She straightened her spine and pulled back her confidence.

"Ah, yes. Kate." The receptionist (male, naturally) preserved a bland face. "Private dining. An attendant will show you through." A smart male attendant appeared from nowhere and escorted her to a small dining room, attached to another room. She would have investigated, but Rick was already there.

"Thanks, Mike," he said, dismissed the attendant with a discreet but rustling handshake, and arrived beside Beckett before the door had clicked closed. Next thing she knew, she was locked against him and – oh. He _wasn't_ kissing her. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or offended.

She glanced up. He looked like he wanted to devour her, and he was hanging on to her as if she were the last lifebelt on the Titanic, but he wasn't kissing her. He wanted to – and more, that was obvious where he pressed hard against her – but he wasn't. She nibbled seductively on her lip, and he smiled.

"If I kiss you, dinner will get cold, and that would be a shame."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Come on. You can't pretend you didn't light up like a rocket too."

"Who's pretending?"

"You are," he said arrogantly. "I could prove it, but like I said, I don't want dinner to get cold. But after dinner, Kate…after dinner, you'll admit it." He released her, more slowly than he might have done, as if he didn't want her to slip his grasp, then repossessed her hand and escorted her to the table, pulling her chair out and seating her as if she were a queen. His eyes gazed at her as if she were a courtesan, and she wasn't unhappy with that in the slightest.

Dinner was indeed delicious. Beckett savoured the flavours of an excellent meal which she hadn't cooked or (more frequently) which hadn't arrived in Styrofoam boxes, sipped the equally excellent wine which had been presented with it, and then sipped the closing coffee and nibbled at a chocolate.

Rick watched her with a mixture of desire and a warm glow which seemed a little out of place in a sex club. Whatever he said, this was a spot for casual hook-ups, which catered to all sorts of tastes. Even if this felt far more like a date – dinner? Wine? Coffee and top-class chocolates, which were the most important part of dinner? – than a hook-up, that didn't change the basics. Thinking of which, some very basic urges were humming in her blood and vibrating down her veins. She peeped through her lashes, then acquired a sultry smile which was instantly greeted by a rakish grin and rapidly darkening eyes.

His hands came across the table and covered hers where she was cradling her almost-empty coffee cup. Heat flamed from the contact, spreading through her body. She nibbled her lip again, and Rick's eyes shaded to midnight.

"Are you provoking me?"

"Is it working?"

"Come here, and you'll find out."

She stood up, as did Rick, who took one prowling step around the table and drew her into him.

"Seems to be working," she flirted, and peeked through swept lashes. "You're having a very hard time not kissing me."

"Impatient, aren't you?"

"If you don't want to…" she shrugged. "I'll just pour myself some more coffee."

She tried to move, and got precisely nowhere.

"You don't want coffee," he purred. "You want me."

" _You_ want _me_ ," she contradicted, and rolled against the bulging proof.

"Yep," he said suavely, "I do. And I usually get what I want, so… why don't we both get what we want, huh?"

"Sounds good to me."

A millisecond later his lips hit hers; his hand ran into her hair and cupped her skull, and she was painted across his hard body. It was even more explosive than the previous night: her pants hit the floor an instant ahead of her sweater, which was simultaneously joined by his shirt and pants – but when he took a good look at her, he paused.

"Wow." He dropped a kiss at the low point of the plunge bra. "That's pretty. All for me? I'm impressed." He drew a line along the edge, slipping a fraction under the fabric and following with his mouth. She swayed towards him, pushing into his lips. He played, then rose off and took her mouth again. Still, he couldn't have it all his own way.

Beckett stepped back, and coolly ran her eyes over his frame. "Silk boxers?" she said. "All for me? _I'm_ impressed." Her hand slipped over the smooth fabric, and he gasped when she gripped his mass and again when she let go.

He laughed. "Fair's fair. I wear them because I like them. I guess you do the same?"

"Yep."

"Well, I like them too." He smiled lazily. "But I'll like them even better when they're on the floor."

"You talk big, but I don't see much action."

"That sounds like a challenge. Are you challenging me?" She merely smiled. "I like a challenge."

Her bra fell off. She hadn't noticed him unclasping it, possibly because he'd been kissing her while he did so. He hoisted her up: she wrapped legs around his waist and clung to his shoulders, and he carried her, not quite effortlessly, through to another bedroom.

She smirked up at him from the bed, swiftly removed when Rick rose over her. After that she didn't remember much, since the few brain cells remaining were fully occupied with the technical difficulties of recalling her name. She'd never been made to feel like that, never been so expertly taken with fingers, mouth, and hard body, never been filled so full; and certainly had never been petted and nestled and snuggled in afterwards in quite such a cosily comforting, though mildly possessive, fashion. It dimly occurred to her that Rick was not exactly behaving as if the evening (or the one before) was a time limited thing. That… would need to be corrected. Soon.

But not now. Not while she was naked in bed, spooned against his broad form: warm, safe, protected…

Oh no. She was having rebound spectacularly good sex. She was not; not not _not_ ; getting into a relationship when she hadn't dealt with the break-up of the last one. That would be dumb. Really, really dumb. And getting mixed up in the Richard Castle celebrity circus would be even dumber. There was no way she'd avoid it. Not a good plan. Newly-minted Detectives Second-Grade did not need notoriety, Page Six, or any hint that they were living a celebrity-infused life. Not at all conducive to bullpen harmony and a quiet life.

 _What are you going to do if he wants to do this again?_ Well, she could do it once more… tomorrow. And then it would all be over. She'd go back to a nice, quiet, single life, and being the best detective she could be. Her team was still shaking down, and her promotion meant she was unquestionably its leader. Not that the boys disagreed, but the higher grade did help.

"What's wrong?" Rick asked. "Are you cold?" He pulled the covers over them, and further pulled her closer. "I'll keep you warm. Or heat you up, for preference." His hand wandered downward, and found the hot, damp cleft. She squirmed as he stroked over the ultra-sensitive knot. "Mmm. That's definitely hot. C'mere."

She went without a qualm. He was _so_ good at it. Her. _He had her coming and going_ , she thought with a feline smile, with a definite emphasis on the _coming_ part of the thought.

For the second night running, she slept, sated, in his arms; another night in which they'd enjoyed each other to the max; in which orgasms had been as common as breath and every touch had stoked the flames; another night where questions hadn't been asked and answers hadn't been offered.

Another night which was now over.

Another morning where she didn't think before agreeing to another night; another morning where she skulked home in the previous night's clothes – less obviously so, but still…

Another evening where she walked into the Varick Club and was ushered solicitously to another delicious dinner. She took a gulp of wine, and summoned up her courage.

"This is the last time I can see you."

Rick's face fell ludicrously fast. "What? But" –

"I have to go back to work."

"So? You could still see me."

"It wouldn't work."

"But" –

"It wouldn't. It's been great – you were great – but it's done."

"I don't want it to be done. I'm not into 'ae fond kiss and then we part'."

Beckett's face set. "Maybe you're not. But I have to be."

"So you don't _want_ to be. Interesting." His face had closed down. "But you will. Walk away and forget."

There was an unpleasant silence. Beckett considered her options, and stood up. "I'd better go."

"I don't want you to. _You_ don't want to. So why are you walking out? What's the story?"

"It was only ever meant to be one night. We're both on the rebound. It's not a start."

"But you made it two nights, then three. You don't want this to end either."

She stood, silent. Rick stood up too, and took her into his arms. She couldn't stop the softening, or her head resting on his shoulder, or her hands encircling him as if she'd never let him go.

"You don't," he said with satisfaction, and kissed the top of her head. "I know. You don't think this is real. I'll prove I mean it. If I can find you, you'll give it a proper try."

"Okay," she acceded. " _If_ you can find me."

"I'll find you." He sounded completely certain. Beckett was equally certain that he wouldn't be able to find her. "But before you do have to go – come here."

He tipped her face up and kissed her hard: total possession in his action. His hands ran under her silky t-shirt, teased at her belt, and her pants slipped off her hips to give him access. He slid her panties back and forward, kissing her all the time, fingers slipping through the wetness and winding her higher and higher so that she leaned into him and let him take and plunder as he pleased. He took full advantage, not giving her the slightest opportunity to reciprocate, until she was panting and desperate, emitting frantic noises and _Rick please more Rick_ and then simply a high thin cry of release.

And then he took her to the bed and did it all over again, and again, and then finally sank into her and took them both over the edge; began to cuddle her in, and released her almost as soon.

"You have to go," he said. "But I'll find you. Promise."

She reached home, and stood in the shower pretending the water falling down her face was from the plumbing. It would never have worked. And he would never find her. At least she'd never let on that she was a fan, or that she knew who he was.

* * *

"Ah, Beckett," Captain Montgomery said, a week later. "The NYPD has a problem."

"Yes, sir?" she said politely.

"Yes. There has been a request for assistance." He smiled, rather wryly. "I have agreed to help."

"Yes, sir?"

"Yes. You qualify. Go to the conference room, where you'll be briefed."

"Yes, sir." She swung off. Orders from her Captain were to be obeyed with alacrity.

Just inside the conference room door, she stopped dead.

"I've found you," arrived from the smiling face of Rick Castle.

"But…"

He merely grinned. "You agreed," he reminded her. "Time to pay up. What time are you off shift?"

"Six. If a body doesn't drop," she added.

"I'll see you at seven, at the Varick." His smile was unbearably sexy: knowing. She returned it with interest. Still…

"How did you find me?"

"Female cop, looking like you? Not difficult, when you play poker with Roy." He grinned. "I think we should be properly introduced. Detective Kate Beckett, I'm Rick Castle." His grin widened. "Let's not be strangers any more."

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated._

 _And for those of you who aren't on Twitter and aren't already totally bored of me advertising, do read my original novel, Death in Focus, available via your local Amazon._


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